


Amidst the Current

by Padraigen



Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series), Karate Kid (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drowning, Feels, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Post-Karate Kid I, Pre-Slash, Teen Lawrusso
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29639481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Padraigen/pseuds/Padraigen
Summary: Johnny remembers a CPR class he had to take a year or so ago. Mostly he remembers the instructor with the weird hair who always spoke like all of his sentences ended in exclamation points. He had a dummy who he calledNancy—and, honestly, what a fucking creep—which the students were directed to practice on.At the time, Johnny hadn’t taken the lesson seriously. He fucked around withNancyand wasn’t thinking about anything more important than trying to make his friends laugh. He’s pretty sure he failed that class.Right now, he wishes more than anything that he’d paid more attention.
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence
Comments: 23
Kudos: 73





	Amidst the Current

There’s something about the beach that has always calmed Johnny. Something about the lapping of the waves, the way his feet sink in the sand, the salty air—he’s been coming to the beach his entire life and it never changes. White sand for miles on either side of him, and the broad expanse of the endless ocean in front, disappearing below the horizon but not ending. Never ending.

He thinks he can remember the first time he ever watched the sunset—really _watched_. How thrilled he’d been to be able to _look_ at the sun for more than a few seconds at a time without burning out his retinas. He’d followed it down, lying in the sand as the breeze caressed his skin and his mother ran her fingers through his hair.

He’s watching the sunset now, and it’s about the millionth time he’s done this, but he’s still not tired of it. He may be a loser now—never again will he walk the halls of West Valley High with the breathlessly ignorant confidence of a man who thinks he’s untouchable (he’s such an idiot)—but it’s not like the sun knows that. It’s not like it cares—it’s gonna set the same way it always has, for millions of years before he’d even been brought into existence, and the same way it will for eons after the last time a person ever mutters his name.

He wonders sometimes what might be wrong with him, that this brings him comfort.

He’s alone now, and it’s the first time he’s ever really learned how to do that—how to be alone—without feeling like the rest of the world is moving on without him, like it’s leaving him in the dust. Maybe he just doesn’t care anymore if it does.

He’s in his favorite pair of jeans—it may be California, but the January ocean breeze is no joke—and his new black leather jacket. He stuffed his old red one deep into his closet the day after the tournament, and he only still has it because he couldn’t bring himself to burn it—but he thinks he might look even cooler like this. Mysterious, maybe, anonymous—like he can wear this jacket and be whoever he wants to be.

It’s the only time he feels like he still has a future—like he’s not one of those assholes who peak in fucking high school and ten years down the line have the audacity to walk into the high school reunion with a beer gut and a bad hair cut and say shit like _Hey, you remember the good old days?_ while every other schmuck with an actual life just nods even though they’re silently laughing inside because, _hey, they were right! Karma does get the worst of us._

There’s always a lump in his throat when he thinks this because—is he really the worst? Getting kicked in the face really does something to a person’s head because every time he sees LaRusso hobbling down the halls with his stupid crutches and that incessant clicking that makes it impossible to ignore he’s there, he always gets this uncomfortable squeezing sensation in his gut that might be guilt—and, yeah. He probably is the worst.

It’s no certainty, though, because every time he tries to think about the last few months, he flinches away from what he thinks might be the worst of it, like being unable to stare into the sun too long because it fucking _hurts_ and it would be stupid to put himself through that, right? He’s not a fucking lunatic who does shit to purposefully hurt himself, so… So, yeah, maybe it isn’t really as bad as he’s making it out to be.

(He wishes so badly sometimes that he could believe that. _Don’t think about it_.)

Today the universe must really hate him—probably always has, since it’s always manifesting the bane of his existence wherever he turns, and this time he’s wearing those ridiculous jean shorts, a black tank top, and those familiar sunglasses that are way too big for his face—and, really, someone needs to do this kid a favor and tell him how dorky he looks. Really.

Johnny gapes, a little bit shocked, but it’s only because of his choice of attire—honest—because how can LaRusso wear just that when Johnny himself is a little chilled even in his more appropriate outfit? Isn’t he cold?

(And he doesn’t get why anyone would want to leave California—who doesn't like California?—especially because they think it’s too _hot_. Like, sure, the heat of a California July kinda sucks when you’re anywhere that’s not the beach, but why would anyone leave for someplace colder? Don’t they realize the cold is _worse_? He knows, he’s been to Sid’s mother’s log cabin in Colorado, and every day he woke up with numb toes. He couldn’t even fucking leave the place without being stuffed into five different layers of wool.)

Anyway, LaRusso is just hobbling along—a man on a mission—faster than he has any right to move for a guy limping through the sand on crutches. He doesn’t even have the decency to notice Johnny’s own presence, and it’s this offense that causes Johnny to stare after him as he powers down the beach with a jaw that’s starting to feel discomfort from being unhinged for so long. That’s the only reason he even cares.

Honest.

LaRusso doesn’t stop until he’s only a few inches tall from Johnny’s vantage point, and in the dimming light, it’s hard to tell what he’s doing.

Just standing there, looking out into the water, Johnny would guess.

He almost wonders what he’s thinking about, and then he _does_ wonder, and then he immediately stops that train of thought because, what does he care?

There’s a legitimate attempt to turn his attention back to the horizon—he’s here for the sunset, after all—and he stares up at the last rays of pink and orange and yellow before twilight commands the skies, but he knows he’s not really seeing anything.

Fucking LaRusso.

He turns back just in time to watch LaRusso drop his crutches. It’s clear by the way he makes no attempt to catch them that it is a deliberate move. Johnny sits up a little, shifts his body and wraps his arms around his knees, and he doesn’t even try to pretend that he isn’t staring.

LaRusso takes an unsteady step forward, and then another, and then another, and he keeps going till he hits the water, farther and farther, the water swallowing his ankles, then his knees, then his hips, and he only stops when it’s nearly as high as his chest.

Johnny’s heart races, which is stupid and doesn’t make sense since he’s not even doing anything.

Wave after wave pounds into LaRusso, and he takes every hit like he doesn’t know how to. _C’mon, man!_ Johnny wants to shout at him. _Plant your feet. Lean in._

Almost every time, though, LaRusso goes under again, only to come back out spluttering. He doesn’t stop trying, Johnny’ll give him that. He won’t ever admit that his heart is thumping so hard it has practically bounced into his throat.

How the fuck is it possible that _this_ is the little twerp who beat him? He thinks meanly that LaRusso wasn’t such a feeble opponent against _him._ He didn’t seem to have any trouble finding his balance when he was about to kick Johnny in the face.

He thinks all of this to drown out the guilty voices inside his head, whispering that this is all his own fault. That _he’s_ the reason LaRusso is here in the first place, facing the waves again and again until he relearns how to stay standing.

Johnny can’t imagine putting in that kind of effort just to get out of bed in the morning without the aid of some damned aluminum _canes._

So he watches, like some sort of _punishment_ , like a _Look here, Johnny. Look what you’re making me do. This is_ your _fault._ He winces every time a wave knocks LaRusso down, cringes every time he stands back up to try it again.

LaRusso is such an idiot, and Johnny really hates himself.

And then LaRusso doesn’t get back up. Several seconds pass as Johnny frantically searches the water where he’d last seen LaRusso go under, but there’s nothing. He leaps to his feet, and it isn’t even a conscious decision, it just happens. He starts scouting the beach, as if to confirm it with someone else— _Did you see that? Did you see him go under?—_ but they’re the only two stragglers left.

When did that happen?

He sprints down the beach, running on autopilot as his brain sort of shuts down in a horrifying panic. As best as he can, he pinpoints the last location he remembers seeing LaRusso and charges into the water, barely remembering to shuck off his jacket so it won’t slow him down.

He dives under when he reaches almost chest-high water and flaps his arms around in a crazed frenzy, trying to catch hold of _something_. He thinks—Fucking _LaRusso, why did you have to do this?_ And then— _Why didn’t I stop you earlier?_

_It’s been too long_ , is the hysterical thought that races through his head louder than anything else. He knows he needs to calm the fuck down and _think_ , and it takes everything in him to do so.

There is no way he’ll be able to see anything in the fading light as night approaches, so he closes his eyes and sinks into the water, spreading out his limbs and allowing the ocean to pull him where it will, all the while praying that it’ll carry him where it carried LaRusso.

A few more seconds pass, and Johnny will remember them as the longest seconds of his entire life, but then _finally_ , by some miracle that Johnny is never going to forget, his fingers brush up against something that his mind guesses in that moment to be the hem of a shirt—and he will never know for sure. That knowledge will be lost to the frantic relief that blots out every single other thought in his mind.

Johnny grabs on tight, and then he plants his feet on the sandy floor of this turbulent ocean he decides he _will_ defeat—no matter what it takes—and pushes up with the kind of power he never knew he was capable of. He wrenches the heavy weight in his left hand upwards with him, and sucks in a sharp, sweet breath of air immediately upon the water releasing him.

He can’t remember the trek back up to the beach. All he remembers is the way he sort of drops LaRusso to the sand, falling to his knees beside him in almost the exact same instant. LaRusso’s hair is plastered to his forehead, stray droplets streaming down his temples and over his cheeks. His lips are parted. He looks like he could be asleep, if only for the fact he wasn’t breathing.

Johnny remembers a CPR class he had to take a year or so ago. Mostly he remembers the instructor with the weird hair who always spoke like all of his sentences ended in exclamation points. He had a dummy who he called _Nancy_ —and, honestly, what a fucking creep—which the students were directed to practice on.

At the time, Johnny hadn’t taken the lesson seriously. He fucked around with _Nancy_ and wasn’t thinking about anything more important than trying to make his friends laugh. He’s pretty sure he failed that class.

Right now, he wishes more than anything that he’d paid more attention. He puts every ounce of brain power into remembering what they’d been taught.

He places his hands in the middle of LaRusso’s chest, one on top of the other, and begins pushing. He hears the instructor’s loud voice ringing in his mind, _hard and fast_ —and absolutely nothing about that is funny anymore—and puts his entire body into applying the compressions. He himself is barely breathing as he pushes, _thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five…_ each compression one after the other in rapid succession.

His face is wet, and he doesn’t acknowledge that it isn’t just because of his dive into the ocean. If the price to see LaRusso breathe again is that he gets to watch Johnny cry over him, then it’s a price Johnny’s more than willing to pay.

After a minute he stops the compressions to tilt LaRusso’s head back and pinch his nose shut. With his other hand, Johnny cups the back of his head and places his parted lips over LaRusso’s open mouth, breathing out. A sliver of hope sparks inside him when he sees LaRusso’s chest rise, and he breathes out again.

Johnny returns to the compressions, words falling from his lips like pleas lost to the night, like _c’mon, breathe,_ and _you’re such a stupid idiot, LaRusso,_ and _don’t do this,_ and _please_.

He’s choking on his own breaths and he’s utterly exhausted, but he won’t give up and he won’t quit, and _god,_ he _hates_ LaRusso. He does, he hates him.

Johnny has never felt such desperate hatred. He wonders—vaguely, and not for very long—what he must look like from the outside. What someone would see if they were watching him now. A crazy person, probably.

Again and again, the cycle continues—push ( _hard and fast_ ), mouth-to-mouth, then do it again.

“C’mon, LaRusso,” Johnny pants as his arms begin to fail him and snot drips from his nose. He lifts his arms into the air and brings them back down again to deliver a heavy blow, and as his fists make contact with LaRusso’s chest, a wretched shout is wrested from his throat— “ _Breathe!_ ”

And then LaRusso jerks and sputters. Spurts of water start gushing from his mouth, and Johnny must quickly roll him onto his side so he doesn’t choke. He doesn’t know what to do, but he starts thumping him on the back.

An immense surge of relief rushes through him, fast enough to make him dizzy, and a steady stream of comments start falling from his lips, none of which are particularly helpful.

“You’re a son of a bitch, y’know that, LaRusso? What the hell were you thinking? You could’ve died out there! What if I hadn’t been here?”

This is the thought that destroys him. He can’t choke back the sob that crawls up his throat and breaks free from his lips, loud and obvious. He’s sure that LaRusso must have heard it, and he’ll probably be ashamed of that later, but right now all he can picture is LaRusso’s body, floating at the bottom of the dark ocean with no one the wiser, no one to save him, and he wonders how long his mom would have taken to notice. How long until she realized her son was gone, and how she’d react when she realized he wouldn’t be coming back.

Would the body have ever been found? Johnny doesn’t fucking know how that works, if it would float back up to the shore or sink to be disposed of by the fish or whatever the hell decomposed a human body in the ocean. The more he thinks about it, the sicker he becomes, so he instead tries to focus on LaRusso’s big eyes, open and _blinking,_ thank fuck, and his soft, parted lips, and the heaving of his chest.

“Fuck you, LaRusso,” he gasps, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to get away. He backs off, stumbling to his feet and turning away, and he tells himself, _Look, he’s fine, you can leave_ , but that’s bull shit because LaRusso almost just _drowned_ , he can’t fucking walk, and he probably needs a hospital.

So Johnny doesn’t leave, but he does grab his jacket that he’d left in a heap on the beach before charging into the water after LaRusso. He shakes it out and carries it back to a LaRusso who is now trembling—and didn’t he say? It’s too damn cold for shorts and a tank—and wraps him up in it.

“Johnny?” Daniel looks confused as he peers up at him, but he accepts the jacket without protest. His voice is hoarse, but that’s to be expected. Johnny kind of hopes his throat hurts enough that he’ll think twice before trying to argue with him. Or even talk to him at all because Johnny’s not sure he can handle whatever he’d have to say.

So he tells him, “Shut up,” and pulls him closer. Holds him tighter.

Thankfully Daniel goes along with this and doesn’t try to speak. He nestles his head into the crook between Johnny’s neck and shoulder, and Johnny can feel the warmth of his breath as it tickles his skin.

That makes something in his chest loosen.

He’s completely drained—the emotional turbulence and then the fight to save Daniel’s life really took everything out of him, and he doesn’t have anything left to give. Daniel seems to understand this, though, and doesn’t ask him anything or demand to know what happened. He probably has a pretty good idea and is coping with the shock of it himself.

He does whisper, sometime later, “ _Thank you_.”

And Johnny’s not even convinced he deserves it, still remembers his thoughts from earlier— _This is_ your _fault_ —so he can’t respond, even if he does sort of want to.

Later, Johnny will help Daniel back up the beach and get him in his car to take to the hospital. Sometime after that Daniel will become everything to him—or maybe he’ll just realize it. Maybe, even now, he’s already everything—and later, much later, Daniel will finally ask for the whole story.

Johnny will never be able to rehash it all—mostly because a lot of it he’ll block out and forget over the years, but also because it hurts to think about, and he’s not the type of person to look directly into the sun because he likes the way he can create his own pain.

For the first few years watching the sunset will bring back bad memories. Eventually, though, he’ll remember that it was wanting to watch the sunset that brought him to the beach that day. And it’s the sunset that will always be there, never changing.

But all of that will happen later. For right now, they’re both alive and together.

It’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> please drop a comment if you have a chance! thanks!
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](https://padraigendragon.tumblr.com/)!


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